


Altitude

by stereomer



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer





	Altitude

Everyone's still all wrapped up in their MOPP gear, hoods pulled tight over their heads as if they're in the tundra instead of the desert. Brad has to make a conscious effort not to sway against the sudden gusts of wind that swoop down out of nowhere. There's so much shit blowing at him that it almost feels like he's at sea -- except it's tiny grains of sand hitting his face instead of saltwater, and when he parts his lips, all he tastes is cakey dust. 

Also, it's hot as fuck, and he can't tell if that smell is his own stench or Ray's shit-stained balls.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuu -- " Ray drags on, but dissolves into a coughing spell before he can finish. "Fuck, fucking goddamn desert. Walt!" he yells in between hacks. "Walt, you asshole! You got any water, man?"

When Walt yells something back, Ray rolls over and stumbles to his feet before shuffling down the ridge, still muttering to himself. Eventually, the sounds of his bullshit fade into the general background noise. Brad takes in the silence, deliberately listening hard for nothing and enjoying the hell out of it while it lasts.

He opens his mouth and experimentally takes a deep breath; imagines his lungs like a dust-filled attic becoming illuminated by sunlight creeping in through a high window. Then he shuts his mouth and exhales through his nose. The image disappears synchronously. Jesus Christ, he must be spending too much time around Rudy or something if he's thinking about this Feng Shui, good-vibrations, anti-fucking-depressant commercial shit.

A shadow falls over him and he turns his head up immediately, fingers twitching and relaxing when he sees who it is. Brad focuses in on the fine grains of dirt caught in the LT's lashes, dusted over his face and filling in the pinched corners of his eyes. Everything seems to get quieter. 

"You're looking at me like Ray does, sir," Brad comments.

The LT squinches his face into what could pass for a distorted smile. His helmet chin-straps are hanging uselessly by his ears. "What kind of look is that?"

"The one that says, 'Oops, I just pissed all over the living room carpet'." 

When Brad crooks the corners of his mouth up, the LT mirrors the expression. Then he rubs the back of his neck once and squints at Brad. Iraq is like a desaturated picture, all tan desert and heat-white sky, but the LT's eyes are still a cool, clear green. 

"Couldn't get more gun lube," he finally says. "I tried." 

Which, coming from anyone else, is usually a pussy euphemism for  _I'm sorry_ , but his voice is clipped and assertive, just stating the facts. Captain America screams about how their weapons have all gone to shit and there's no fixing them; Encino Man doesn't even understand there's a fucking problem in the first place; the LT says,  _I tried_.

Brad gazes up at him steadily. Not defiant, not disappointed -- just looking. He doesn't even say shit about lube. Yet. 

The LT meets his eyes. It idly occurs to Brad that one look from the LT could probably convince a cracked out prostitute to quit sucking cock for money and become a nun. Or maybe it's the other way around, from nun to cock-sucking prostitute.

"Sir, if I wanted easy access to lube at all times," Brad begins, enunciating carefully, and almost smiles when the LT drops his eyes and rolls his shoulders a bit, "then I would have gone to an Ivy League with four-thousand other idealistic, bright-eyed liberal shits, majored in Philosophy, and joined the local Stitch 'n Bitch when I wasn't preparing meatloaf for my lawyer-fuck homosexual of a boyfriend."

"Three out of four," the LT acknowledges without batting an eye, and after only a brief pause. "I actually majored in Classics." A smile flickers over his face, a real one this time, if only a little lopsided. He nods, then turns to walk away. 

Brad watches him go. Not thinking, not imagining -- just watching.

About five seconds later, Ray practically collapses next to Brad. "Sand motherfucking  _everywhere_ ," he mutters to himself, but it's quiet after that, the only sounds being the laborious shift of their gear and the wind whistling past.


End file.
